PS 3515 
.163 V2 
1897 
Copy 2 



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I 




Class 
Book. 



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Copyright ]^°. 



18^7 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSm 



CMA^^^^"^^ 



VANITIES IN VERSE. 



Fifty-seven Copies Printed, for Paul Lemperly. 
No. yX>C 



VANITIES IN VERSE. 



Duchess. Take pen and ink, and write. 
Are you ready ? 

Antonio. Yes. 

Duchess. What did I say ? 

Antonio. That I should write somewhat. 

Duchess. Oh, I remember. 



■4 t^jojrxx^^r. GlcU^ V "^^'-''^■^^' 






^ ^i^ 

er 



PAUL LEMPERLY, CLEVELAND. 

PRINTED BY F. H. ON THE MARION PRESS, 

JAMAICA, LONG ISLAND. 

MDCCCXCVII. 



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^515 

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Copyright, 1897, by F. A. Milliard. 






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TO THE DUCHESS. 

Tou bade me ivritey and in your hand 

I place my bunch of posies — so! 
And you 'will read and understand^ — 

Dear hearty stueet hearty you knoiv^you knoia. 

And lohy I hid my heart from vieiv^ 
And ivhy I ivbisper, whisper loiVy 

And bend my face close^ close to youy — 

Dear hearty true hearty you knotv^ you know. 

With vanities my thought I drest 
To trick and fool the passing show ; 

But you are iviser than the rest, — 

Dear hearty dead hearty you knoiv^you knotu. 



TABLE. 



f>s 



I 

9 
II 

13 

14 

17 
21 

22 

23 



A Contretemp 

Ballade of the Dead 

Ballade of Aspero 

Through my Binocular . 

In the Cathedral 

Sub Rosa . 

To my Mistress ^s Eyebrows 

Love Crowns All 

When Jermyn Lived 

The Book to the Reader ( Triolets') . 24 

'''Twas fust Like This I ' ' (^Rondelet) 26 

"/ Told You So!'' {Rondelet) . 2/ 

The Waif (^Villanelle) . . .28 

Address to the Comet . . . jo 

I Rest Content .... j2 

Destin . . . . . 00 

The Watermark .... oc 

J^-vo j^ 

V Envoi ..... ?7 



A CONTRETEMPS. 

Smith dealt the cards, and Brown, who had the age. 

In a fine blending of bombast and sense 

Doubled, as was his privilege, the pot. 

Be not deceived, Francesco, by the term. — 

Not the spun bowl of Japanese or Turk, 

Urbino, Gubbio, or Henri Deux, 

MajoUca, faience, or such like gaud 

That ornaments the table of the time. 

And, by a sort of baked-in ugliness. 

Sets all th' world agog ; but a plain Jack Pot. 

You may have seen the game ? 

Not so ? Then grant 
Me leave to pause a moment in my tale. 
And show by what precise and direct laws 
The sport is governed. 

Mark me, Francesco. 
For form's sake we will place the table here. 
Or there, or, for that matter, anywhere, 
Bi I 



2 A Contretemps. 

And ranged around its orbed periphery- 
Some four, or five, or six, or even seven. 
Each furnished with a heap of golden dross 
Plucked from the bowels of rich Potosi : 
Rings, trinkets, chains, and such, — bijouterie 
Of antique workmanship and strange design. 
Left them, perhaps, by some flush ancestor 
Who flourished in the ante-clinquant days. 
When weight was paramount. 

A certain sum. 
Determined by the age, or elder hand. 
Is then by deft and cultivated touch 
Slid by each player to a given place. 
Which, being equi-distant from the rim. 
We call the center ; in plain terms, the pot. 
A pack of cards is used, such as we see 
In book-shops and the Y. M. C. A. rooms. 
Frog-back, or Tourist, or the Koh-i-noor, 
It matters not : their faces are the same ; 
They speak a language cosmopolitan. 
These cards are shufiled, then distributed. 
In strict conformity to prior right. 
Beginning at the left, and circhng round, 
A unit at a time, till each has five. 
I know not whose compact and forceful brain 



A Contretemps, 3 

Wrought out these brief but arbitrary rules ; 
Enough that 't is the law. 

One other point : 
The privilege of dealing, hke the cards. 
Passes in strict priority of claim 
Unto the left. The process is not hard. 
But I have noticed, with observant eye. 
That he who wears a thumb thick, spatulate. 
With generous well of moisture on his tongue. 
Deals with the largest unction. 

To proceed : 
The stakes being up, the cards distributed. 
Each player, as his cunning may direct. 
Discards, if so he will, ( not must,) a card 
Or two, or all, receiving in exchange 
The self-same number from the dealer's stock. 
By which he must abide. Such is the law. 
This feature is the genius of the game. 
Involving points most deep and intricate 
Of drawing, filling, perchance standing pat. 
Pairs, threes, and fours, fulls, flushes, and so forth. 
Inviting tact and dark diplomacy 
Beyond the ken of Magnus Albertus 
Or any bygone Magus of the East. 



4 A Contretemps, 

But to the point in hand. 

As said before. 
Smith dealt the cards, and Brown, who had the age. 
In a fine blending of bombast and sense. 
Doubled, as was his privilege, the pot. 
Compelling Jones, myself, and also Smith 
To play the same, or formally resign. 
Jones fell a victim to the stratagem. 
And idly dropped his hand, thus limiting 
And casting certain bounds about his loss. 

You know my way, the vigor of my blood. 
Which courses through my veins like liquid fire, 
O'erleaping all the bars in reason's fence. 
And landing me at one Titanic bound 
Full at the climax of my joys or woes. 
In brief, I saw the raise which Brown had made, 
( I hate the name — a most plebeian sound,) 
And forthwith raised the sum of fifty pounds. 
( This to affright him, for my hand was nil. ) 
Smith in his turn, like Jones, let fall his hand. 
Leaving the final play to Brown and me. 
Brown saw my raise, and calmly asked for cards. 
Receiving only two, which staggered me. 
As I supposed he blustered on a pair. 



A Contretemps. 

My turn then came, and with contemptuous air 
I flung my cards into the refuse pack. 
And called for five. 

I know not how it is, 
Francesco. Fate, or some mixed element 
Darkly enthroned within the soul's domain. 
Protects the soaring one who does and dares. 
So chanced it now, for in the new-dealt hand 
There lay four queens and king ! — invincible. 
For I had thrown a straggling ace away. 
You understand, Francesco, what I mean ? 
Not all the combined forces of the earth. 
The planetary system, sea, or air 
Could win against my hand. Not all the weight 
Embowelled in the golden Jupiter 
Would count a jot. My hand was leverage 
That could unseat it from its starry throne 
And jostle it to chaos. 

Brown played first. 
And with a look half sneer upon his face 
Staked but five pounds, to keep me in the game. 
I matched the play, then coolly raised the pot 
One hundred pounds. 



6 A Contretemps. 

At the academy 
Of surgery, in Paris, I once saw 
A vivisection. 'T was most curious. 
A score or so of quidnuncs closed around 
A pinioned hare, — moveless save its mute eyes. 
Which plead for peace, — while one grave optimist 
With scalpel, forceps, and curved bistoury 
Laid open nature's secrets — arteries. 
Nerves, muscles, and at last the beating heart 
So busy in its office. This strange scene 
Recurred to me as with inquiring eye 
I followed, raise on raise, the face of Brown, 
Till, ready for the coupy I raised the pot 
Five hundred pounds. 

Francesco, you have seen 
A certain scar on the right cheek of Brown, — 
I gave it him, you know, two years ago, — 
Right here. No ? Never noticed it, perhaps. 
It was not plainly seen when in repose ; 
But now it stood defined, a crescent curve. 
Clear cut and silvery, hke the new moon's edge. 
**I call," he said, and in a dreamy way 
Stacked up his coin and notes. 



A Contretemps. 7 

He found it short 
A hundred pounds. Then, hesitating long. 
He placed his hand within his vesture here. 
And forthwith drew a jeweled miniature — 
AngeHca's ! See — this ! She gave it him ! 
** Will this make up the hundred pounds ? " he said. 
I nodded my assent. 

You recollect 
About our trouble some two years ago ? 
'T is idle to repeat the time-worn tale. 
I loved Angelica. Her picture there. 
Crowning the golden splendor of the pot. 
Carried me back to my most happy days. 
My thought in captive chains. With gaze still fixed 
Upon the miniature, I dreamed my dream — 
An idle, foolish dream. Brown broke the spell, 
( Not for the first time, please you understand, ) 
And with his hand outstretched, as if to guard 
From touch profane the image of his love, — 
*'I called you, sir ! " he said. 

I faced my cards. 



8 A Contretemps. 

This is my story. You have heard the rest, 
Francesco, as have I ; but I saw it not. 
Thoughts travehng backward to a love that 's lost. 
Yet still loved, are not easily controlled. 
When I awoke I saw the dainty tool. 
Half toy, half weapon, thin, crisp, vibrative. 
Embodiment of crystallized flame. 
Quivering at his heart ! 

' Dead ? Yes ; quite dead. 



BALLADE OF THE DEAD. 

Where are the beauties who have graced 

The Court, the halls of dazzling light, — 
The swan-like neck, the taper waist. 

The symphonies in pink and white ? 

Where are the charms that drew the fight 
On Ilium' s walls and turrets steep ? 

Where are the goddesses to-night ? 
Why did we plant the dead so deep ? 

Where is the virtue, prim, strait-laced. 

That held the temple for the right : 
The quick alarm, the danger faced. 

The pride, the scorn, the added height ? 

Where are the maids whose loyal plight 
Withstood the wrack of donjon keep ? 

Where has Diana taken flight ? 
Why did we plant the dead so deep ? 

Where are the warriors, steel encased. 

Who ruled when Launcelot was knight ? — 
G 9 



lo Ballade of the Dead, 

The cause espoused, the reckless haste. 
The high disdain, the bold despite ? 
Where Cceur-de-Lion, man of might. 

And he of Bayard ? Ah, they sleep 
Beneath the hsts, beyond the sight. 

Why did we plant the dead so deep ? 



L' Envoi. 

Man, do you read my thoughts aright ? 

We plow and sow, that we may reap ; 
What of the crop the grave-worms blight? 

Why did we plant the dead so deep .? 



BALLADE OF ASPERO. 

I cannot hold to creeds, for I am one 

Unused to bow to fashion's vain decree. 
My thought, my act, my soul, are mine alone. 

And I, of hving men, possess the key. 

Untutored is my neck, uncrooked my knee. 
To those set rules that sway men thus and so ; 

I shall be ever I, unfettered, free, — 
/ am the thing was made for Aspero! 

Truth is forever truth. And yet I own 

My truth to some were rank apostasy; 
Yet would I be no better than a stone 

Did not my soul translate my truth for me. 

And though the wise and I may not agree. 
Each one, mayhap, his store of truth shall know: 

One is for war, and one for minstrelsy, — 
/ am the thing was made for Aspero ! 

And when for me familiar day is done. 
And I float out upon that unknown sea, 
Cii 1 1 



12 Ballade of Aspero. 

Though swept by storms, now this way, that way, 
blown. 
Wasted and worn by dire adversity, 
I would have strength to totter unto Thee, 

And at Thy sacred feet that remnant throw. 
With voice to cry, " O Master, I am he ! 

/ am the thing was made for Aspero! " 



L' Envoi. 

Ah, grant me this, that I may ever be 

True to myself and Thee through ebb and flow. 

Thou art the Author and the Deity, — 
I am the thing was made for Aspero! 



THROUGH MY BINOCULAR. 

'Twas but a drop of water from a vase 
Where roses died, and yet I saw a sight — 
Or did I dream ? — that filled my soul with awe. 
Methought I was the one all-seeing eye. 
Perched leagues above a seething surging mass 
Of living things ; as far as eye could reach 
A myriad throng, some here, some there, in groups. 
And colonies, and kingdoms of their own. 
And one, that seemed an enemy to all, 
A monster, fierce, vindictive, agile, strong. 
Dashed through the waters with amazing speed. 
Making quick havoc in each separate group. 
And all bethought to hide when it came nigh. 
But hush ! a sudden terror strikes them all ! 
The sea, so vast before, seems shrunken now. 
And each, as if some great calamity 
Hung over him, moves quickly to and fro. 
The waters thicken still ! In endless ooze 
The countless millions creep, and strive to pass. 
They stop ! they pant ! and in an instant more 
The vast sea-bed 's a grave, and all is still ! 

13 



IN THE CATHEDRAL. 

If you were that church-window angel. 
And I the grave saint overhead, 

I would steal to your place in the casement 
At twelve, when the world was abed ; 

I would breathe in your ear a warm whisper. 
And quicken your framework of lead. 

I would hand you adown oh so gently. 
As due one so dainty and rare ; 

Your robe, now constrained in your window. 
Would float on the nebulous air. 

That rose by the pyx on the altar 
I would twine in your luminous hair. 

I would kiss you, and ask you to banish 
That far-away look from your eyne ; 

Your hand, lightly poised, (as if listening,) 
Would tremblingly nestle in mine. 

( I wonder what word could have sculptured 
Those lips in such perfect design ! ) 

14 



In the Cathedral. 15 

Like a knight and his ladye a-wedding, 
Down the shadowy aisle we would pass ; 

Those rugged old heads of the martyrs 
Would bow in their fretwork of glass ; 

Those cherubs aloft would chant anthems ; — 
Saint Peter himself would say mass. 

We would tread in the sweep of the chancel 
Some stately old measure of yore — 

Grave steps of retreat and advancing 
That our ancestors used to adore. 

I would bow you so low that my nimbus ^ 
Would strike like a chime on the floor. 

Our natures of angel and mortal 

Would meet on a boundary line : 
In me what was purest and highest 

With your stainless soul would combine. 
I would lead in affairs sacerdotal. 

You in matters more strictly divine. 

I would tell you the story of Agls, 
Who grieves from her panel below, — 

Of Aglae and Boniface, lovers 

Who lived, sinned, and died long ago. 



1 6 In the Cathedral. 

See! he waits farther down by the pillar. 
( 'T is a sin to have parted them so.) 

Hand in hand, with a sinuose motion 

We would ghde through our ancient demesne. 

I would tell you, I think, that I loved you. 
And call you ( might I ? ) Josephine ; 

We would speak soft and low, so the echoes 
Should not hear us and gossip between. 

And at last, when the face of the morning 
Grew gray, hke a face newly dead, 

I would place you again in your window. 
Tuck you up in your bedclothes of lead ; 

You would still be the church-window angel, 
I the grave patron saint overhead. 



SUB ROSA. 

Dearest, did you ever think 

How the fancy of the poet 
Quite outstrips the printer's ink 

Commonly supposed to show it ? 
Now that red rose in your hair 

Starts a troop of thoughts in motion 
Fanciful as summer air. 

Restless as the pulsing ocean. 
Listen, dear, and try to find 
What is hidden in my m.ind. 

All the roses, dear, were white 

When the world had its beginning. 
And their present shades well might 

Illustrate the grades of sinning — 
Nature's hall-mark, I might say. 

Which the loving One in Heaven 
Uses in some secret way 

To record a fault forgiven. 
But the red rose, lord of all, 
Marks the first, or primal, fall. 
Di 17 



1 8 Sub Rosa. 

'Tis a story sweet and sad 

Of a maiden and her lover ; 
Both were poor, and neither had 

Clothes of proper cut or cover. 
What, Miss Nancy, won't you list ? 

Are we not progressing finely ? 
Hidden thoughts, you see, exist ; — 

Mine or yours ? You blush divinely. 
If you try to make me miss 
I shall stop you with a kiss ! 

'T is a tale alUed to shame ; 

But it really does not matter 
Which of them was most to blame. 

People here dispute and chatter. 
'T was, perhaps, the fault of spring. 

With its balmy breezes blowing, — 
Time young bantams try their wing. 

And experiment in crowing ; 
Time the pent-up heart unlocks 
In its vernal equinox. 

They were summering alone 

Near — we '11 say — to the equator ; 



Sub Rosa. iQ 

( No ; she had no chaperone ; 

Those duennas came in later ; ) 
And the story got about 

(Rumors, dear, of course there would ht') 
That the two beyond a doubt 

Were no better than they should be. 
Strange how people with a candle 
Peep about in search of scandal. 

Was it not enough, ma chere. 

That they loved, and had their troubles ? 
That — What ? Stop ! and prick the air 

Out of all my pretty bubbles ? 
Very well. But let me add. 

For the sake of erring woman. 
That she was n't very bad, — 

Just pathetically human ; 
And ( what everybody knows ) 
'T was her kisses stained the rose. 

There ! was I the least unfair ? 

Did I make the first allusion ? 
Fie ! the red rose in your hair 

Winks and laughs at your confusion. 



Dii 



20 Sub Rosa. 

But my purpose was to show 

( Not revive this old indictment ) 

How the hidden currents grow 
Under pressure of excitement. 

Moral ? Ah, you have me there. 

Ask the red rose in your hair. 



"TO MY MISTRESS'S EYEBROWS." 

Dark pencilings, that fringe the dome of thought. 

And lambrequin the windows of the soul. 
Thy autocratic will was never brought 

Beneath the yoke of muscular control. 
My lady cannot sway thee, as she may 

Her dozen other agents who conceal 
Her secret moods by some base underplay. 

Who tempt me, fool me, break me on a wheel. 

Fine capillary tubes, I know thy power. 

Thou art for me my compass and my chart. 
When thy dark canopies begin to lower, 

I soothe, with oily speech, my lady's heart. 
And calm its troubled depths, lest I go down 
Beneath the deep Chary bdis of thy frown. 



21 



LOVE CROWNS ALL. 

The world seems very small at close of day. 
When I, released a moment from the chain 
That binds me to my task-work, soul and brain. 

Slip from my prison-house, and steal away 

To where she waits. There I the monarch play. 
Forgetful of the world and its disdain. 
And in her presence half beheve I gain 

Those hero-heights where life is mastery. 

For Love crowns all ; and living is at best 

A dreamless death without Love's perfect grace. 
What matter domes, and palaces, and all 
Those heaps of future ruins east or west. 
When she beside me with her radiant face 
Makes all the world seem very very small ? 



22 



WHEN JERMYN LIVED. 

When Jermyn lived, the record says. 
The court was ruled by love and praise ; 
Each little beau had his amour. 
And some had three or even four, — 
'*The more, the merrier ! " as the phrase. 

And grim old dowagers in stays. 
And maids-of-honor, caught the craze. 
One's wife was not so very sure 
When Jermyn lived. 

But times have changed. Its present phase 
Shines dimly through platonic haze ; 
We deal in ethics, thought adore. 
And delve in mines of mystic lore. 
Not so in those brisk stirring days 
When Jermyn lived. 



23 



THE BOOK TO THE READER. 

( TRIOLETS. ) 

Will you view me with scorn. 
Pretty Madge, Maud, or Frances ? 

Sly coquettes, ( yet unborn, ) 

Will you view me with scorn, — 

Let me lie all forlorn 
Where the attic ghost prances ? 

Will you view me with scorn. 
Pretty Madge, Maud, or Frances ? 

Might I not have been writ 

By some uncle or other ? 
Years ago ( when a wit ) 
Might I not have been writ 
By your dad — just a skit — 

Ere he married your mother ? 
Might I not have been writ 

By some uncle or other ? 



24 



The Book to the Reader, 25 

Better keep me near by ; 
Some old party may claim me — 

Just suppose it were // 

Better keep me near by. 

And try — only try — 
Not to question or blame me. 

Better keep me near by ; 
Some old party may claim me. 



Ei 



\V 



*' 'T WAS JUST LIKE THIS ! " 
[rondelet.] 

'T was just like this : — 
( Now don't be cross ; what could I do ? ) 

'T was just like this : 
Could I refuse the proiFered kiss — 
My brother's wife's half-sister, too ? 
I kissed her, not as I kiss you ; 

' T was just like this ! 



26 



'*I TOLD YOU SO!" 
[rondelet.] 

I told you so ! 
They 're skittish ; more than that, they shy, 

I told you so ! 
Now trust to me : — Confuse her ; show 
A shifting front ; avoid her eye. 
You '11 win the trick if you but try. 

I told you so ! 



Eii 27 



THE WAIF. 

[VILLANELLE.] 

Gently, now ! gently ! (Where 's my lass to-night?) 

Tidy her up ; make her winsome and fair. 
What do you know of the wrong or the right ? 

Many I 've handled. What 's there to affright ? 

Close her eyes tenderly. God ! how they stare ! 
Gently, now ! gently ! (Where 's my lass to-night?) 

They 're much as men make them, — not so bad, quite. 

Smoothe out the masses of tangled hair. 
What do you know of the wrong or the right ? 

Give her a gown of the daintiest white. 

And a ribbon or two, such as women wear. 
Gently, now ! gently ! (Where 's my lass to-night ? ) 

Now bring a box, — five feet two, — (Lizzie's height ! ) 

That small one, half lined y with the pillow y there ! 
What do you know of the wrong or the right ? 



z8 



The Waif. 20 

See ! she is smiling ! (Oh, nail her up tight ! ) 

She '11 sleep none the worse for a small bit of care. 
Gently, now ! gently ! (Where 's my lass to-night ? ) 
What do you know of the wrong or the right ? 



ADDRESS TO THE COMET. 

Thou burnished Thing, 
Forever on the wing. 
All hail ! 
If one swish of thy tail 
Tremendous 
Would send us 
To some more enlightened spot. 
No matter whether 
The weather 
Be hot 
Or not, — 
Where Justice rules. 
Not knaves or fools. 
Or their tools, — 
Where Manhood has some claim 
Upon the name, — 
Where Virtue wins regard 
In addition to being its own reward,- 
Where Hope has wings. 
And various other things 

3° 



Address to the Comet. 3 1 

Of which there is a dearth 
Upon the Earth, — 

Bright Rover of the Sky, 

I, 

An inhabitant of said Earth, 
Of native birth. 
And representing the better class of society. 
Say unto thee 
That if 

One sv^ish . . Biif ! ! . . 
Would bring this change about 
Without 
Materially interfering with your route 
Or schedule card. 
Don't coldly pass us by. 
Don't stop to reason why; 
Let thy vast rudder fly ! — 
Give us one, — 
Hard! 



I REST CONTENT. 

I rest content, nor care a jot 

For that dull phrase **the common lot." 
I do not ask or wish to rise 
Beyond the reach of friendly eyes ; 

Such airy flight attracts me not. 

The even pace, the jogging trot. 
Best suits my slow and sober thought ; 
Though others pass with eager cries, 
I rest content. 

My ingle-nook, my book, my pot 
Of Cavendish, my pillowed cot, — 

These, Allah ! are the things I prize. 

Keep them but mine, the worldly-wise 
May smile, and say — no matter what; 
I rest content. 



3^ 



Ft 



DESTIN. 

In the quiet land 
Of Was-To-Be 

No terrors come 
To frighten me. 

Some live in the world 
Of Now-Take-Care, 

And many ghosts 
Abounden there. — 

'T is a fearsome place 
Of hidden mines. 

And accidents. 

And warning signs ; 

And the people there 
Are chilled with fear. 

And many die 

Twelve times a year. 

33 



^^ Destin. 

No ; my world is best. 
At least for me, — 

The quiet land 
Of Was-To-Be. 



I 



THE WATERMARK. 

Within this page a hidden workman stands. 

I see his forge, his arm poised for the blow. 
Hark to his stroke! What shapes he with his hands? 

And what his purpose? Answer, ye who know! 

So stands the poet, deftly hid away 

Midst vain conceits, and idly plays his part. 

Yet ages hence who knows but one shall say — 
'^ I see him there! I hear his beating heart!'''' 



35 



JUVO. 

Who first invented this word Friend, 
And hung the jewel in my ear ? 

How soft its purring liquids blend 

Into the dental at the end ! 

How fears depart, how griefs amend. 
When this my talisman is near ! 

Who first invented this word Friend, 
And hung the jewel in my ear ? 



36 



I 



L'ENVOI. 

Duchess, take my meaning, then ^ 
For 'Words are •vain elusi've things. 

Who reads the qua'vers of the ivren f 
Ff^ho knoivs the song the redhird sings f 

Betivixt the lines, and roundabout. 

And doivn the cunning groo'ves of tohite. 

The hidden thought tvinds in and out ; — 
And there the song you bade me ivrite ! 



37 



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